


Teutates

by kirsant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Harems, Multi, Possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-04 06:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirsant/pseuds/kirsant
Summary: The walls of Hogwarts hold many secrets, some of them benign and some rooted in a deep, dark past. When Harry stumbles upon the latter, his life and soul are shattered, leading him down a path of power, destruction, and sex. A Dark!Harry, Possessed!Harry, Harry/Harem story.





	1. Chapter 1

The book was old. Harry didn’t really know how he’d found it; one moment, he’d been browsing through the library stacks, desperate for anything that might help him finish Snape’s essay, and then the volume was just in his hands. Strange things can happen in libraries. Like books appearing out of nowhere. 

Harry took the book back to his table. It was worn around the edges, and the binding was crumbling. When he opened it, a cloud of dust so thick was expelled, that it rose up to his ears and prompted a cough, which drew several glares from the study group nearby. "Typical Gryffindor," one of the seventh-year Ravenclaws muttered, but dispelled the dust with his wand nonetheless. Harry ignored the barb, muttered his thanks, and turned back to the book. Now legible, the front cover displayed an obscure runic design, thin lines interweaving into strange, crooked symbols he had never seen before. 

They sent a chill down his spine. 

Now, usually, Harry wasn’t prone to diving into random books that had just jumped into his hand. Besides, he really needed to get on that essay. Snape would gladly assign him a week’s worth of detention for missing it, and who cares if Malfoy turned hers in two days late for full marks? Murdered by Snape, equity was long dead in the dungeons. So, what Harry needed to be doing is figuring out how to maximize the diffusion rate of a 3% living death solution. 

Instead, he opened the book. 

He couldn’t really explain why. It was just in front of him and it was so...

So…

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry jerked up, blinking rapidly. “Huh?”

“The library is closing.” Blocking off the light, Madam Pince’s form seemed to tower above him. 

“What?” said Harry, shaking his head. “No, that can’t be. It’s only six.”

“It is ten, Mr. Potter,” the librarian corrected him. “And if you need rest, then I would advise Gryffindor Tower. Your bed is a much more appropriate place for slumber than a bare library table.”

Harry looked down, frowning. Hadn’t there been some book? But the details were fuzzy, quickly slipping from his mind. “But–” he began, only to be cut off again. 

“The library closes at ten,” Madam Pince repeated, tapping a fingernail against the watch on her hand. Clack, clack, clack. “Those are the rules.”

“Right,” Harry said, running his hands through his harry head. “Sorry. I’ll just...I’ll grab my things.” 

Under the librarian’s frosty glare, he picked up his book bag and hastily made his way out. This late in the night, the corridors were deserted. Most of the lights had been doused, and only a few lonely flames remained, flickering in their scones. They sent long shadows across the bare stone walls, looking crooked and bony. Gusts of wind rattled the windows. Sometimes, they squeezed through the cracks and moaned as they ghosted down the halls of the ancient castle. Outside, far above over a cold, dark, and empty world, a wicked moon prowled the heavens. 

“Harryyy…” 

Harry froze and then slowly turned around. Had he imagined the sound? Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but his hand crept down towards his wand nonetheless. Maybe it was Malfoy, trying to prank him? But this didn’t really fit the Slytherin’s modus operandi. This was something...different. His hair stood on edge, goosebumps prickling over his skin in waves. And why was his heart beating so fast?

“Harryyy…”

A lone whisper. Harry whirled around, wand popping into his hand and a spell ready on his lips, but there was no foe to counter, no one to stun. Only the flames on the walls were present, going out one by one. 

“What are you?!” Harry yelled, watching the edges of the corridors turn black. The darkness beyond was unpierceable. It was something not of this world, something that should not even exist here, with the living, but be present only in the farthest reaches of space, in that great empty void between galaxies. And like some hungry, ravenous beast, the void was approaching. 

Harry turned around, but the same sight greeted him there: lights, doused by the dark. Trapped, with nowhere to go, “Lumos,” was the last thing he whispered before the darkness engulfed him. And then it was quiet. 

And then Harry screamed. 

. . . . 

The next morning, Harry descended to the Great Hall before anyone else. The sun had barely breached the horizon, and most of the students and faculty were still in their beds. Harry wasn’t burdened by the solitude, however. Humming some eerie, unfamiliar tune, he heaped his plate with everything the table had to offer and then he wolfed it all down. Eggs, ham, toast, apples, melons...plate after plate disappeared down his gullet with a speed and efficiency that was nearly inhuman. Anyone observing him could have only concluded that the poor boy hadn’t eaten in a month! But there was no one to witness Harry’s unbelievable display of gluttony. Only the house-elves, down in the kitchen, were dumbfounded at the sudden demand and had to work extra hard to keep up with Harry’s appetite. Their trial lasted a full forty minutes. 

Finally, and only when the first early risers started trickling into the Great Hall for breakfast, Harry leaned back in apparent satiation and burped. 

“Disgusting, Potter.”

Harry turned around in his seat. There, winged by her two consistent henchman, was Dracie Malfoy. 

Dracie had been an antagonist ever since year one, when Hagrid had taken Harry on his first tour of Diagon Alley. She was pureblooded, haughty, and considered herself better than most anyone else. Harry was a common target for her cruel amusements. She particularly enjoyed riling him in Snape’s class, where there was little he could do to respond. In return, Harry took a particular satisfaction in beating her on the Quidditch field. 

“I would ask whether or not you learned any manners at home,” Dracie continued, flipping her platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder in a practiced gesture, “but then I just remembered you live with muggles.” She concluded with a tinkling laugh, which might have actually been pleasant had it not been attached to such an unpleasant individual. Crabbe and Goyle laughed too. Harry wasn’t particularly certain they actually knew what they were laughing at. 

He also didn’t reply. He just stared, hard. And there was something so unnerving in his gaze, something so alien and cold that Dracie, who was always ready to add a cutting remark, started to fidget. “Not even worth my time, anyway,” she said, suddenly backing away, but her tone lacked the usual bite. 

Watching the retreating group, Harry’s eyes lingered over Dracie’s form. He’d never really considered her anything as more than a rival – an uppity, spoiled Slytherin girl that had it out for him. Now, however…

Now, his eyes roved over her backside with an almost predatory glee. She was fit – the constant Quidditch practices saw to that – and every bit of her perfectly tailored and extraordinarily expensive ensemble only emphasized that fact. There were the stockings (silk, no doubt) which rose to mid-thigh; the skirt that hugged her arse delectably; the blouse that stretched over a pair of pale and perky breasts; the perfume which cost a fortune and smelled like apricots in bloom...she was like a piece of candy, begging to be unwrapped, and Harry, for the first time in years, looked upon Dracie not with disgust, but desire. In his mind, he saw her suddenly spread out beneath him, lips ruby and swollen, breasts free, moving rhythmically as he pounded into her, punishing her for the years of insults and demeaning comments, the nasty remarks, the curses in the corridors, the way she made fun of him and his friends...

His cock was now iron hard. Idly, his hand wandered down to his trousers, and it’s uncertain where this might have led, if at that exact moment, Ron hadn’t wandered up and plopped down beside him. 

“Morning, Harry,” he yawned, completely oblivious to Harry’s aroused state. 

“Morning,” Harry said after a moment. His heart was beating fast, face felt flushed. It took several breaths to calm down, which Ron did notice. 

“You alright?” he asked, following Harry’s gaze, which was still pinned to Dracie. “What is it? Malfoy? She being a bitch again?”

“Ronald!” Hermione’s voice sounded behind him. “That’s not polite,” she scolded, taking a seat across from the two boys. 

“Polite or not, true nonetheless,” Ron grumbled, rolling his eyes. Hermione shot him a glare. “Anyway,” she declared loudly, pointedly turning away from Ron, “I was working all evening on Mcgonagall's assignment. I think I went a little over the limit, but I just found it so fascinating how–”

To an outside observer, it might have appeared that Harry was listening closely to Hermione’s absolutely fascinating (not really) tale; he was not. Instead, his eyes were focused on Hermione’s lips, seemingly captivated by their nimble movements. And the more she talked, the more his expression changed: first casual, it gradually grew in intensity until he was staring at her like a lion would at a gazelle – with feral hunger. The view must have been unnerving, because Hermione quickly became flustered, broke up her monologue, and stammered, “Harry? Is it...do I have something on my face?”

Harry blinked. His features softened, and then he smiled readily, and the change was so quick that it was almost as if he’d put on a mask, albeit a very convincing one. 

“No,” he said. “I’m just still getting used to your teeth. Madam Pomfrey did a spectacular job with them last year.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, and looked down. Her cheeks had turned a bright shade of magenta. “Thanks.”

“You should smile more,” Harry added. “It really suits you.”

Hermione fiddled with her hands, then lifted her head and broke out in a wide grin. Harry smiled back – and if the gesture came out a little too wide, neither of his friends noticed.

“Well, if we’re all done smiling at each other,” butted in Ron, who’d just finished the last bit of toast, “we should get a move on, or else Snape’ll have us scrubbing cauldrons or something much worse.”

Snape. Harry frowned. Hadn’t there been something important regarding Snape recently?

“By the way, that essay was nearly impossible to write. I can’t believe you didn’t help, Hermione!”

“Honestly, Ron, you really need to learn to do your own work. You can’t copy mine forever!”

“Why not?”

Harry groaned. Snape’s essay. He’d forgotten all about it. 

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Snape had Harry slicing potions ingredients for two whole weeks, every day after classes. Over that time, as he cut into the slippery guts and crushed dried beetle skins into powder, Harry tried to comprehend the recent changes in his life, and failed miserably. The issue was that it wasn’t just Harry anymore. Something else had occupied his mind, something alien, ancient and driven by a very basic set of needs: hunger and lust. 

And it was powerful. 

It didn’t really understand this world, not yet. It had been born when man was still young, still huddling around fires and telling stories of the gods in the sky. It had been a god too, once; or, rather, man had called it that. Whole tribes had flourished under its dominion. They worshipped Teutates, drowning victims in His name, tearing out still-beating hearts on stone altars. They offered him prayers; they offered him blood. He gladly accepted both.

But with time, all things change. New cultures came and new gods with them. The Roman pantheon eclipsed the deities of Gaul and Britannia, and slowly, Teutates was forgotten. His shrines fell into disrepair; his altars were broken. The river of prayers dried out to a trickle and then evaporated altogether. He slumbered. He slumbered for ages, his spirit form gradually decaying as memory of him was wiped out. Only a few ancient tomes remained that contained a spark of his essence—that were powerful enough to serve as a conduit between him and man, should a capable one be found.

This ritual had been practiced once, by the Celtic tribes. Through blood and sacrifice, they could cleave a man’s soul and merge the remnants with the spirit of a god, creating a heavenly warrior, ready to strike fear into the hearts of foes. They didn’t last long, however, these victims of ritual. Teutates would consume them from the inside, his divinity breaking the bonds of flesh. The few that survived the bloodlust of battle would perish that very night in severe agony, screaming as they bled from every pore. But those had been mere mortals, unworthy as a real chalice of power. This boy was a wizard. And not just any wizard, but one with a split soul. 

That was why he’d been chosen in the first place. A part of another being had latched on to the child’s core like some parasite. In doing so, it had created an opening that Teutates could follow. Which, once the book of His name was open and the connection established, he did. Inside, he quickly established his dominance. A body can hold two different souls, but three is too much. The struggle was brutal. Voldemort’s essence battled him with a desperate ferocity, but in the end, Teutates was a god, and he feasted upon the soul fragment, tearing whole chunks out of the blackened, acid-like entity, as it writhed and screamed. 

Then he assessed his situation. 

He was hungry and weak. He had no followers. Once, whole crowds had gathered for his favor; now, he would be lucky if his name could be found on the shelves of dusty archives. In his current state, any direct confrontation might be his last. Therefore, he could not proclaim himself, not yet. He needed a following, people to worship him and offer prayers, which are the sustenance of any god. This would have to be done in secret. Millenia ago, such an idea would have revolted him. He had never shied away from battle. When the Roman gods came, brought by legions of golden-skinned men under proud eagle standards, he fought them with his Celtic brethren upon the slopes of Croagh Phádraig. Three days and three nights the conflict lasted. The sky burned with fire. The ground trembled, the seas shook. And on the dawn on the fourth day, when the roar of the heavens subsided, he found himself alone and beaten. The reign of the pagan gods was over. 

But he had learned from his error. He did not rush to battle now; instead, he molded himself into the boy’s consciousness, hiding beneath a mortal veneer. He did not seek to take direct control of the body – he would not be able to conceal himself then – but instead redirected the boy’s urges to suit his needs. Nourishment was the first priority. Any kind would do, for now. Food, blood, sex. The latter was particularly important. Teutates had been a god of war and also a god of fertility. The women he laid with became a special source of power; in return, he was obliged to protect them. The boy had had no experience in that area yet, but with a few gifts that would change very soon. 

Teutates was famished. And he would have his fill. 

When he completed his efforts, he quietly retreated into the very back of his host’s consciousness and fell into a half-slumber. He did not need to be discovered, not yet. The compulsions he’d placed should be strong enough to make the child seek out what he needed. And with every bite he took and every woman he bedded, Teutates would grow stronger until he was ready to take complete control. And then the world would tremble. 

Teutates closed his eyes and began to wait. 

. . . . 

So while Harry did try questioning his new circumstances, he wasn’t very meticulous about it. It was more of a half-hearted effort, as Teutates had ensured that the recent changes wouldn’t spark too much curiosity. So after several days of listless pondering, Harry simply stopped worrying: not only did his own behavior seem more and more natural as time went on, but there were suddenly much larger issues vying for his attention. 

Like boobs. 

Oh Lord, boobs were everywhere. Big boobs, small boobs, perky boobs, modest boobs, and boobs the size of ripe watermelons, gods, he noticed them all. They were the world’s most succulent morsels, just bouncing in front his eyes, begging to be fondled and fucked. They were everywhere. They called to him in his dreams. He nearly went mad. 

In classes, Harry had to ask to be excused, but his trips to the loo, which resulted in desperate wanking sessions, only sharpened his needs. More and more, like some predator assessing herds of prey, he scanned the hallways of Hogwarts. And more and more, his burning, lustful glances settled on Hermione. 

Unbeknownst to Harry, Teutates had selected her. She was exactly what he needed: intelligent, loyal, and with a hidden streak of viciousness, Hermione was the ideal candidate for the head of the new religion. She did have an unfortunate tendency to nag, of course, but that wasn’t anything a good fucking couldn’t fix. Teutates had had his share of women, and not a single one managed to question his actions with a cock down her throat. That would have been quite an accomplishment.

To Harry, who was well under the fallen god’s compulsions, this manifested in a burning need for his know-it-all friend. Her smiles became torture. The smell of her hair made him drunk. And at night, when the rest of the boys snored in their beds, his hand wandered down to his aching member and gripped the steel-hard flesh as he imagined her lips circling his cock. 

For a full two weeks this madness lasted, and yet not a soul noticed. While most of Teutates’ magic was either dispersed or gone altogether, the few lonely crumbs that remained were good enough for three things: controlling his host, offering him some protection, and, most importantly, boosting Harry’s appeal on both a biological and magical level. Teutates was a god of fertility, after all. Sex was his domain. And no bushy-haired know-it-all could resist, try as she might. 

Hermione was doomed, and she didn’t even know it. 

. . . . 

After two weeks of divine hormone-induced insanity, Harry’s moods gradually stabilized. He could think a little more clearly now, although not all of his thoughts were his. Snape’s detention came to an end at about the same time, which finally left his evenings free. The first one, he spent with Hermione. 

It wasn’t even really a conscious decision on Harry’s part. It was more like...instinct. A wounded animal seeks shelter, a hungry wolf sinks his teeth into a captured doe, and Harry simply followed Hermione when she announced her intentions to study at the library. This drew a few surprised glances in the common room, but otherwise, no one really bothered. Ron’s response was to merely shrug, sarcastically wish them both loads of fun, and then wander off to engage Seamus in a game of exploding snap.

Harry gallantly let Hermione go first through the portrait and then caught up beside her. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” she said, her bushy curls bouncing with every step as they made their way down the winding corridors. 

“I don’t have to..?”

“Join me,” Hermione clarified, throwing him an annoyed glance. “I know you’d rather be with Ron, playing snap or chess or talking about Quidditch.” 

Harry was silent for a moment. “I spend almost every evening like that,” he finally said, adjusting his glasses. “It’s high time I did something else. He’s not my only friend, you know.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, and nibbled on her bottom lip. “Thanks.”

“Besides,” teased her Harry, “someone really ought to check up on what you do in the library all the time. It could just be a cover.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “A cover for what?”

“I dunno,” said Harry mischievously. “What if you’re meeting someone?”

“Meeting someone? Who would I be meeting?”

“A boyfriend.”

Hermione stopped in her tracks. “A boyfriend?” she sputtered.

“A Slytherin boyfriend,” Harry added, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as Hermione turned beet red. 

“You’re being ridiculous!” 

“Interesting,” Harry said to himself, “So she is not denying having a Slytherin boyfriend.”

For that, Hermione promptly smacked on the shoulder. “Of course I don’t have any Slytherin boyfriends.”

“Any other ones?”

“No,” said Hermione, setting off at a brisk pace.

“Are you sure?” 

“Pretty certain.”

“Because,” Harry drawled, catching up, “you might not have noticed, but Nott was staring pretty intensely at you during potions.”

It was almost uncatchable, but Hermione’s footsteps slowed, just a bit.

“He was?” she asked. 

“You really need to get your nose out of a book,” Harry said. “You’ll notice he’s not the only one.”

Hermione stopped again. “Are you pulling a prank on me?” she asked, turning towards him. 

“Cross my heart,” said Harry, and then became serious. “Trust me, guys notice these things. And you’re my best friend. How could I not pay attention?”

Hermione paused to mull that over. Harry could almost see the gears turning in her brain. On the one hand, maybe she ought to be offended; but on the other, the idea of being at the center of someone’s attention was flattering, and even the most bookish girls (sometimes, especially the most bookish girls) aren’t immune to that feeling. As the seconds ticked by, Harry watched the two emotions battle within her, and when inevitably, flattery won, a pleased sort of wolfish satisfaction flashed in his eyes. Hermione didn’t notice. 

“So he was staring, huh?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “And who else, you said?”

“You’ll have to torture me for any names,” joked Harry, wounding his arm around Hermione’s waist as he nudged her towards the library. “Didn’t we have studying to do? Or are you now content to spend the time chatting about boys in the hallways?”

“Shut up,” she said, poking him in the ribs. Harry oofed, but kept his hand in place, and was immensely pleased when Hermione didn’t wriggle out of his grip. Her shirt was smartly tucked in, but he could feel her skin through the poplin fabric, smooth and cool. His heart started to pound, sending blood below his belt. That made him quickly drop his arm and distance himself before he destroyed all his efforts with something Hermione wasn’t ready for yet. 

“Let’s go,” he said, smiling wolfishly. 

In the library, Harry suggested an out-of-the-way nook. Looking at a group of Slytherins that were bound to cause trouble otherwise, Hermione agreed. There, they settled in, spreading out their notes and parchment and quills over the table. In the process, Harry’s hand brushed Hermione’s several times. He kept this up over the course of the evening: light, innocent touches as they read from textbooks, swapped lecture notes (mostly Hermione sharing hers), and practiced some of the wand motions for new spells, which wasn’t exactly permitted in the library, but no one was looking. 

Hermione was all smiles. She was like a Christmas tree, all lit up, dimples showing on her face, and Harry suddenly realized that she’d been lonely here. She may be a bookworm, but she wasn’t antisocial. And neither Harry nor Ron (her only friends, pretty much) ever followed her to study. She spent whole evenings, wasting away in the library in solitude. Productive? Maybe. Engaging, no. 

A part of him felt guilty all of a sudden. Hermione had always been by his side, helped him along and keeping his interests at heart, even when it didn’t seem that way (the Firebolt came to mind). And now he was planning to...Harry almost blanched at the devilious ideas in his mind, the ones that would leave Hermione bound to him as an obedient thrall, always eager to follow his word. This little revolt went nowhere, however. Teutates’ magic was primed for such obstacles, and it quickly steered Harry’s thoughts away from questioning his actions and onto Hermione’s chest, where the top two buttons on her shirt had become undone over the course of the evening. Harry’s heart picked up its beat again, and his face became flushed. 

“Are you alright?” asked Hermione, noticing his discomfort. 

“I am,” Harry assured her, smiling crookedly. “It’s just a bit late, yeah? I think we’ve done enough.”

“I guess...oh, my,” said Hermione, casting a quick tempus charm, “nine o’clock! I can’t believe...time always seems to drag when I’m by myself.”

Harry’s lips dipped, just a bit.

“But you’re right,” Hermione continued cheerily, “we should set off. We can continue tomorrow, that is, if…” she paused, looking unsure of herself, and then suddenly started to babble, “I mean, only if you’d like, of course. I understand that it’s not very entertaining, certainly nothing like debating Quidditch, all the Wrinsky feints and Caplint dives and who’s better than who, and so if you want to be with Ron tomorrow, that’s completely alright, I’ll just–”

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted her, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

“Yes?” She fell silent, staring at him with wide eyes. They were caramel, Harry noted suddenly. Caramel with swirls of amber. 

“I’d love to. We’ll study tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Hermione exhaled, her shoulders sagging in relief. “Well, that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled, and pulled her into a half-hug. “It is.” 

Hermione wanted to respond with a light gesture, but something stopped her. Instead of just a quick hug, she suddenly found her hands weaving around Harry’s back. He smelled...electrifying. It was a tantalizing aroma: crisp on the tongue, fresh, and exhilarating, like a storm in the air. It made her breath hitch, her senses tingle. Waves of goosebumps washed across her skin, cresting over her shoulders and spine. Like a ship in a gale, she was carried away, and her arms unwittingly tightened, nipples pebbling to a delightful warmth which spread through her chest and then plunged down, dipping below her navel in a euphoric explosion of mind-shattering delight. She gasped, inhaling sharply, her nails digging into Harry’s back. Her eyelids fluttered. Adrift on an ocean of bliss, she was lost, and when her hips began to mindlessly grind on Harry’s thigh, seeking to prolong the wicked pleasure, she didn’t even notice. 

Harry nearly came. 

With her head tilted back and eyes clouded with ecstasy, she was sin on earth. Watching her become undone was easily the most orgasmic thing he had ever seen, and it took everything he had not to act on his urges, not to tear her shirt to shreds, rip off her bra and latch onto her heaving chest… 

He knew she wasn’t ready. Not...yet. 

Soon. 

“Hermione?” he asked after several moments, pretending to be oblivious to her state. 

“Harry?” Her words were breathless, and her fingernails still ghosted across his back. 

“You alright?”

“I’m...I’m…” Hermione stammered, slowly coming out of her daze. And then it was like a switch went off. 

Her eyes cleared. Her mind sharpened. And as she registered her predicament, a wave of shock overcame her features, and she pushed away, face growing scarlet. 

“I’m fine,” she squeaked, hands shaking as she started to throw her things in her bag. “Totally fine. Fine, fine, very, very fine. Just really time for us to go.” 

Watching her embarrassed fretting, Harry had to bite back a smirk. Fine, ha. How could she be if her scent was in the air? He could smell it. Standing with her thighs pressed tightly together, she was completely mortified, and it was just the sexiest thing ever. Her knickers were probably ruined. Sopping wet. And she’d have to walk back in them all the way up to Gryffindor Tower. 

Harry helped her pack up, and behind his eyes, Teutates grinned in his slumber.

Not today, and not tomorrow, but soon this girl would be his. 

The first of many. 

And then he would have it all.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few weeks passed in the blink of an eye. The world seemed to change just as quickly. It was like overnight that the days became shorter and trees donned dresses of amber and rouge. Nights were chilly now, and in the mornings, just before sunrise, a mist could be seen spreading over the Black Lake, looking like a white puffy octopus. October came around. 

But for Harry, none of this mattered. Unlike other students, he wasn’t awed by nature’s splendor. He didn’t see the sunsets that burned like wildfire, nor the stars that glittered in a velvet sky. The air turned crisp – he didn’t care. He saw only her.

Hermione. 

She was the fly in his web, unsuspecting and vulnerable. What happened in the library was just a taste of things to come for her, but she didn’t know. Well, not at first. Blissfully unaware, she spent the days in Harry’s presence, who was always by her side. Sometimes, when no one was watching, he’d display small signs of affection. Nothing major though. Nothing that crossed any lines. Just a brush on the arm or a brief, passing smile. It looked completely innocent; it was anything but. Because while these actions may not have seemed like the pinnacle of seduction, they were enough to keep him in her mind...which is all that he needed. For the more time she spent in his presence, the more potent Teutates’ magic became. Bit by bit, it wove its web, ensnaring her in temptation. 

And bit by bit, she succumbed to its spell.

Now, this wasn’t very obvious. At the surface, Hermione seemed to be her old self: bossy, critical, and a swot to the core. Most people looked no further, and, frankly, that wasn’t surprising. She wasn’t the easiest individual to befriend or get along with. She also, as her dormmates had discovered early on, had a rather vindictive streak to her character. She could wait weeks to exact revenge on a catty remark. This wasn’t a dealbreaker by itself – hell, they were all witches, capable of a sly hex or two – except, this was amplified by the fact that she simply didn’t fit in. Truth is, she had never been comfortable around people. Perhaps that’s why she sought refuge in books from an early age, which only served to alienate her even further. Odds are, she would have never made any friends in Hogwarts if it hadn’t been for a few careless words and a troll in the dungeons… Who knows what might have happened then? Who knows...

But, regardless of the reasons, this meant that Hermione was quite often overlooked. It was ironic that Ron – loud, boisterous Ron – considered himself to be the most invisible of the trio, when that wasn’t the case at all. No, people heard Ron, and people always saw Harry, but Hermione…

Hermione was the bookworm. The bushy-haired swot that lived in the library. Hermione was the person that everyone thought they knew, and knowing that made them look no further. So it shouldn’t be surprising that the changes in her character went entirely unseen. That no one noticed her long, lingering stares. Or her dreamy sighs. Or that sometimes, when Harry Potter was near, her breaths would grow deeper and she’d shift in her seat, subtly adjusting her thighs. 

And, let’s face it: even if they did notice, what would they think? 

That an ancient magic was corrupting her? 

That she was horny as fuck? 

Don’t make me laugh. And yet such was the truth. 

Oh, yes: for Hermione, life had turned into a perpetual struggle of prudence and sin. And even if she could fight this during the day, at night, when the moon sailed high and a quiet stillness set all around, her hands would begin to wander. And, truth be told, Hermione didn’t resist temptation all too much. 

Ironically, it was her mind – that brilliant, beautiful mind – that led her to her fall. It didn’t see anything strange in her emotions and quickly rationalized them away. She was a teenager, it said. She had hormones. It was all perfectly natural. And, her mind argued, as her hands trailed down her body in the darkness of the night, she was hurting no one at all. It would just be her own little secret. 

No one would know. Especially Harry. 

Because she could never tell him. She could never share that he had turned into her personal haunt. That she imagined his lips, soft but demanding, slipping down her neck to her collarbone. That in her mind, he would press hungry kisses to her skin, sending her heart a-flutter. 

That his hands would slip down her sides and then yank at her knickers, making her mewl with need. 

“Tell me,” Harry would growl into her ear in her fantasy. “Tell me what you want.”

“Please,” she begged. 

“Please what?” His voice ghosted on her skin.

“Fuck me.”

Hermione could never imagine saying something so crass in real life, but this was only a vision. Just a guilty pleasure that made her see stars as she pressed a pillow between her thighs. It wasn’t real. It would stay hidden, of course, down in the depths of her soul. 

Except, for the beast that occupied Harry’s eyes, her secret was clear as day. 

And as the weeks went on, and her disposition changed, the monster smiled. It saw the flush in her cheeks. The way her breath hitched when he was near and how her fingers trembled. The way she leaned towards him like a flower greeting the rays of the morning sun. She was hopelessly bewitched. 

Almost ripe for the picking. 

And that deep, dark part of Harry knew, even though the conscious one didn’t. It knew...and it waited for its prize. 

. . . .

It should be noted, however, that Harry’s aberrant behavior did not pass without consequence. There was simply no way around this. Teutates’ goals were so different that no matter how well he hid himself, certain things slipped through. And over time, these peculiarities began to draw attention. 

Take, for instance, the issue of Dolores Umbridge. 

Umbridge, colloquially known as the ‘Pink Toad’, had arrived at the beginning of the year. Since that time, she had set a record, of sorts, of becoming the most reviled Hogwarts faculty member in the history of the school. Which didn’t bother her in the least, of course. 

On the contrary, in fact, she was either proud or completely oblivious to this accomplishment, strutting around the ancient halls with an air of arrogance that would have made even the late Salazar Slytherin envious. She was also adamant in shaping a very specific picture of the future, where Voldemort’s resurrection was a myth to be squashed and the only defensive magic students needed to know was ‘lumos’. Defense Against the Dark Arts had been thoroughly gutted by her machinachions. 

It wasn’t much of a surprise, therefore, that she had clashed with Harry from the very start. He was the nexus of rebellion. The one who argued against her teaching tactics, continued to push lies regarding the Dark Lord’s return, and not only was he constantly disrespectful, but possessed no sense of authority whatsoever. Umbridge had retaliated with numerous detentions, and everyone was anticipating an escalation in the hostilities. 

What no one was expecting was that they’d stop altogether. 

To Harry, the reason was fairly simple: detentions weren’t worth it anymore. The horcrux was gone, the connection broken. Neither snakes nor Avadas haunted his dreams anymore. Only one thing mattered, and it wasn’t Voldemort. It wasn’t the stupid curriculum and it certainly wasn’t anything the Ministry tried to promote. 

No, right now, only Hermione mattered, and Harry would be damned if he had to spend an evening with Umbridge instead. 

Of course, that’s not what the rest of the school saw. To them, Harry had stopped his crusade for no reason. He became quiet, obedient and never interrupted her class. He did whatever work was prescribed without argument.

Hell, he’d turned into the ideal pupil!

Which was, of course, suspicious as hell. Because when had Harry Potter, of all people, ever been the ideal pupil? 

As these things tend to go, the whole school knew within a week. Whispers formed in halls: everyone was eager to guess at the cause of this suspicious behavior. So far, the leading theory was that Harry was laying low in preparation for...something. What that ‘something’ was, no one really knew, but that didn’t stop copious amounts of speculation springing up quicker than mushrooms after an autumn rain. Ideas ranged from smuggled Honeydukes paraphernalia to an attack by a fire-breathing dragon. 

The dragon idea, given the trio’s history, wasn’t that outlandish. 

Harry didn’t pay these rumors any mind, at first. There was always at least a dozen or so following him at any given moment, so why care about one more? But when Fred and George ambushed him after class, he realized that the situation was more precarious than he thought. Umbridge was actively stirring up discontent, and it was only a matter of time before she set off a spark that led to an explosion, which would inevitably lead back to him, because these things always led back to him, whether he was actually involved or not. 

Sometimes, being Harry Potter was just goddamn difficult. 

Still, he was able to delay the twins by promising to involve them when things ‘were ready’. That gave him a little bit of time to prepare. Fortunately, Hermione was already near the edge; all she needed was a push. 

Which Harry was only happy to provide.


End file.
